


Hail to the Chief, Baby (AKA SamnDean vs. the REAL Axis of Evil)

by ras_elased



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-03
Updated: 2008-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November 3rd, 2008. Dean and Sam decide to clean house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail to the Chief, Baby (AKA SamnDean vs. the REAL Axis of Evil)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a mangled quote from Army of Darkness, because I thought it was funny.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Current mood:**

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chipper  
  
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**Entry tags:**

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[fandom: spn](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fandom%3A%20spn), [fic: hail to the chief baby](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20hail%20to%20the%20chief%20baby), [genre: crack](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20crack), [genre: humor](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20humor), [rating: pg](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20pg)  
  
  
  
Title: Hail to the Chief, Baby (AKA SamnDean vs. the REAL Axis of Evil)  
Author: Ras Elased  
Disclaimer: So very not meant as anything but entertainment. All of this is just one big silly joke, please don't send the FBI to my house to arrest me. I swear, it's all in good fun!  
Rating: PG for some bad language  
Category: Gen, CRACK  
Warnings: Not for Republicans.  
Summary: November 3rd, 2008. Dean and Sam decide to clean house.  
Author's notes: Title is a mangled quote from Army of Darkness, because I thought it was funny.

  
***

  
** _Nov. 3, 2008_ **

Dean stares at the slip of paper, moving his lips as he reads the address to himself. He glances up, checks the numbers on the house, then double checks the address again. "You're sure this is the right place?"

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Yes, Dean. I'm sure."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "As sure as you were about the last house?" Sam purses his lips and glares in silence. "And the one before that? And the one before _that?_ And—"

"Look, it's not my fault this guy owns all these houses! And this is the last one on the list, so he's bound to be here," Sam interrupts sharply, but Dean just rolls his eyes at the tone.

"Alright, I guess eighth time's the charm." He pulls out his gun and Sam reluctantly follows his lead. He'd suggest picking the lock and sneaking in instead of going in with guns blazing, but he knows what they're up against, and it's better to be prepared.

Dean's boot collides with the door and it swings open with a violent crack. They're inside the house in an instant, guns poised at the ready. The silver-haired figure in front of the tv stands shakily, eyeing them with confusion and a nervous smile. Before the man can speak, Dean bites out, "Park it, Gramps."

The man's joints creak slightly as he lowers himself back into the chair by the tv, but his chin juts out in defiance. Not for the first time, Sam wonders why he let Dean talk him into this with nothing more to back it up than, "Bobby's got a job for us, and Castiel gave us the green light. Apparently, God's got a beef with the guy."

The television is wrapping up a political ad, something about Obama being a terrorist and a socialist and the freaking Antichrist, and Sam kind of laughs to himself at the irony. He looks at the curmudgeonly old man who's wearing a pasted-on nervous smile and is blinking rapidly in distress and okay, maybe that's a little creepy. And annoying.

"My friends, what are you—"

"Can it, Gramps," Dean barks. "We aren't your _friends_. Now hold still while we send your demon ass back to Hell." Dean is already kneeling to tie the man's wrists and ankles to the chair, and Sam has a brief moment of panic at the thought that they're making a mistake.

Once the man is secure, Dean stands. The guy looks up boldly and says, "Son, I spent five years as a POW in Vietnam. If you think this is scaring me, you're sadly mistaken."

Dean stares back, grins darkly, then takes a flask of Holy water from his jacket pocket. "You know, I always kind of wondered what it would be like to water-board a demon with this stuff." Before Sam can stop him, Dean pries the guy's jaw open and pours the water down his throat. It bubbles and hisses and steams, and suddenly the guy's rapidly blinking over black, vacant eyes. Sam's doubts instantly vanish, and he begins the exorcism.

Afterwards, the demon is out but the old man is fine, and Sam is in a state of shock as he collapses into the passenger side of the Impala. "Huh," he says. "Who'd have thought John McCain was possessed?"

"Hell, who _wouldn't,_" Dean snorts derisively. "Have you _heard_ that guy's economic plan? No way he was anything but evil, dude."

***

Two hours later, they leave Sarah Palin's campaign headquarters a little worse for the wear. Sam knows it's common to string up chickens or rabbits for use in dark spellcasting, but he's never heard of polar bears and moose heads, and even a pig wearing lipstick. That was one seriously black altar, and Dean maybe salted and burned it with a little extra gusto. He always did have a soft spot where fuzzy animals were concerned.

"Man, I freakin' _hate_ witches!" he mutters darkly, casually wiping at his eye like he has an itch. Sam just pats his arm in sympathy.

***

Honestly, Sam has no idea how they'd managed to sneak in. Somebody on high must be looking out for them. Literally. Sam makes a note to thank Castiel the next time he sees him. In the meantime, he decides not to press his luck and concentrates on the protective sigils he is drawing in hidden corners of the Oval Office.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean calls, and Sam turns to see his brother leering thoughtfully at the President's desk. "You think JFK did Marilyn on this desk?"

Considering Sam is in a near constant state of panic at the thought of the _real_ Secret Service agents bursting in and opening fire, he isn't really in the mood to deal with Dean's libido. "Dean!" he hisses. "Will you just finish up so we can get the fuck out of here?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but continues scoring a thin line in the wall near the baseboard and filling it with salt, forming a hidden perimeter around the room. Sam finishes the wards and briefly considers drawing a Devil's Trap under the desk, but the thought of George W. Bush being stuck in the office _indefinitely_ sends a shiver down his spine and he quickly nixes the idea.

On their way out, Dean takes out the fake Secret Service earpiece and calls Bobby's contact, the one who set up the job. Bobby apparently met him during Bobby's tenure as a University of Chicago linguistics professor. After hearing that tidbit of Bobby's past, it had taken nearly three days for Sam to get over the image of Bobby in a tweed jacket, complete with elbow patches, glasses, and smoking a pipe.

"It's all set. The place is ready for you to take over in January," Dean says into the phone. There's a pause, and then Dean shoots Sam an inscrutable look. "Uh, no, sorry. 'Fraid we can't exactly vote." Another pause, and then, "Well, legally, we're kinda dead." Dean smirks in reaction to something that Sam can't hear, then says, "Right, I'll be sure to tell Bobby. And, hey, good luck tomorrow, Senator Obama."

  
~~The End~~  
THE BEGINNING!  


_   
**Hail to the Chief, Baby**   
_


End file.
